Thirteen Ways of Visioning a Crow

Remember that nouns, verbs and adjectives
are made-up things. Crows, on the other hand,
are real to life, and winged.
Place a walnut at the edge of a curb.
Wait for a crow to swoop down
and take the bait.
Then, watch how it connives
to get inside the tough-to-crack walnut.
Capture this episode of savvy and desire
by snapping a series of photographs,
and when the crow flies away,
with or without the walnut,
reflect upon the nature of theft,
and which one, you or the crow,
is the guiltier of the innocents.
Tape a pair of children’s scissors
to your nose (trying not to sneeze)
and run around outside while
cawing with deep religious conviction
until your throat is air-chapped and hoarse.
Then, stop singing, and look up
toward the clouds with a longing
that courses from the roots of your silence
to the edge of your scissors,
and feel yourself a bated crow,
winging its way home.
coined the term “bird-brained”
mistook a mirror
for a crow
upon which he projected
humanly erred measurements.
When you see a crow
bopping like a pogo legend of prehistoric bop
along the runway of coarse pavement,
do the same,
and enjoy an immediate upgrade
in your relationship to ground
and self.
Stare at a crow,
flying or perched,
and wonder why
the crow isn’t moved
to write about you.
There’s been a murder,
with the usual suspects
framing a most fearful symmetry.
Envision the crow
on a Roman or Florentine vase,
a Renaissance icon and model
emblazoned in the annals of artistic cryogeny,
then reflect upon how you were not there
when ______ fell,
or _____ was lost forever.
If possible, make direct eye contact with a crow,
and walk away feeling,
A) ashamed of the fact that you exist, or
B) strangely absolved of something or another.
Train a mercenary cult of bees
to chase away crows
that have assumed the semblance of coven.
As the crows soar into retreat,
amidst a cacophony of cawing and buzzing,
think of witches, and how the world,
by grievous turns, cruelly mistreated them,
then do your best to call back the scattered crows
so as to seek a forgiveness
which cannot be given.
To eat crow
is a phrase synonymous
with raising the dead
to have poor table manners.
Crows and chimps
are considered equals
in terms of relative intelligence,
yet only one of them
can fly into the air
to shit on the head
of someone upon whom
they have been patiently waiting
to exact calculated vengeance.
Between this world,
and the next,
the status of liaison
may be claimed by a bird
that you denounced as a liar, thief and pest.
Be mindful now
so as not to be led astray
In a wheat-field
screaming yellow,
the memory of bones,
and the reaped lore of crows,
as bred into gospel
by a force of nature
reckoned Van Gogh.




About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.
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